Immeasurable Heights
by Fading wind
Summary: Pre-movie. Holmes makes a promise he can't keep. Deals with Holmes' drug use and how this affects Holmes and Watson's relationship. Holmes/Watson, Watson/Mary


Title: Immeasurable Heights  
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, Watson/Mary  
Rating: PG-13  
Word Count: 10,350  
Warnings: Drug use, non-explicit descriptions of sex.  
Summary: Pre-movie fic. Holmes makes a promise he can't keep.  
Notes: Holmes and Watson's relationship is incredibly dysfunctional in this one, oh dear. Feedback is much appreciated, as I spent quite a while working on this one. (:

**Immeasurable Heights**

Watson comes back late in the evening to find Holmes sunken in his chair, eyes closed and worn creases drawn deep in his forehead, fingers twisting slowly around the fraying fabric on the cuff of his dressing gown, winding the threads round and round and round.

This is never a good sign.

Watson glances briefly at the mantelpiece, and then exhales. He settles down on the armchair opposite, relishing how it has moulded to him after all these years, as if it remembers him, an old lover who always fits perfectly in the shape of his embrace because it knows him well. It has become both an honour and a comfort to take this place next to Holmes every day, but on some days it is less so than others. And sometimes, with growing frequency lately, it exhausts him to claim his seat.

Today is one of those sometimes.

"The cocaine again, I take it," he says quietly.

Holmes does not reply for a while, and when he finally does, he only says, "Yes, Watson. A most clever deduction."

"You need a new case," Watson says.

"You are unhappy with the cocaine," Holmes says simply, eyes still shut.

"Of course I am," Watson replies, with a slight acidic bite to his voice. "I have made it clear to you many times before. It is not as if you are happy with the cocaine yourself. Yes, it stimulates your mind when you are otherwise unoccupied, but it hardly lasts for a quarter of an hour before you begin to plunge into one of your black moods, which can then only be resolved by yet more of the dreadful substance. Or a mystery to delve into. The latter is definitely the healthier option. And you are happier with it. We both are."

"Yes, your reasoning is mostly sound. But you must consider: is the latter currently an option? No, I think not. The cocaine is always available; cases are not. It is unavoidable that I should turn to artificial stimulants that are at my disposal when I cannot devote my thoughts to more exciting tasks. My mind is perpetually gasping for such things, as you know," Holmes confesses, his eyes flying open at last.

"I know," Watson sighs, finding himself conflicted as he simultaneously tries very hard to look into Holmes' eyes and also look anywhere _but_ Holmes' eyes. Holmes' pupils would have been dilated wide moments before Watson had entered the room. If he were a better friend, he would be able to discover an alternative solution to the problem of Holmes' exceedingly keen mind. A solution which, like the syringe that lies within the morocco case on the mantelpiece, will always be readily accessible, but unlike the syringe, it would have to be entirely harmless. He has spent most of the past seven years hunting for the answer and it has never appeared to him. "It's been months since our last case. I am sure one will present itself to us soon enough."

"Yes, one can only hope. In the meantime, will you please allow me to continue to use the cocaine whenever I please?" Holmes asks.

"It is not something you have ever needed my permission for," Watson says, frowning. "I am powerless to stop you from doing what you truly wish. I have given you my advice and warnings and you have always neglected to heed them."

"If I told you," Holmes says, "that there is something you could do to prevent me from taking more of the cocaine, would you be willing to do it?"

"That would depend on the nature of your request. After all, if you asked me to do something ludicrous such as take out my revolver and shoot you on the spot, you would be unable to touch the syringe ever again, but that is hardly viable."

"No. That is nothing like what I had in mind. And you would never hurt me," Holmes says softly.

Watson reels at the frank confidence in that statement. His breath catches in his throat, and he has to turn away for a while. "No," he agrees, eventually. "I could never. Which is why I wish I could persuade you to dispose of the drugs. I cannot even begin to calculate the detrimental effects they may have on you."

"I will promise to abandon the cocaine if you will kiss me," Holmes whispers, his eyes bright.

There is a stretch of silence as Watson forgets how to breathe entirely and his heart pounds fiercely inside his chest, memories flashing past of all the times when he had almost been unable to restrain himself from closing that short distance between him and his friend and crushing their lips together desperately. "Surely your mind must be addled by the cocaine," he protests, a futile attempt at deflection that he knows is pathetic.

"You have wanted to kiss me for a long time," Holmes says.

Watson cannot deny it. He is actually almost surprised it has taken Holmes so long to confront him about this. It must be so painfully obvious, the way his gaze lingers on Holmes' lips a moment too long, too often. Now, with the knowledge that Holmes is willing, it is taking all his strength not to lean over and match those lips with his own already. "And that is all that you require? A kiss from me, and you will throw the bottles and the syringe away?"

"Well, I suppose I may need more than a kiss," Holmes admits, with a sly grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes. Watson prides himself on being able to discern Holmes' outward expressions from his true emotions, for to most other people, Holmes is an exceptionally good actor. "You will get my promise when I wake up encircled in your arms tomorrow morning with the sun in our hair."

"Why are you doing this?" Watson says, suspicious, because as appealing as Holmes' proposal sounded, the look on Holmes' face suggests secrets that he desires to uncover. "Why do you want me to kiss you?"

"Because I have always wanted you to," Holmes says. Rather infuriatingly.

"And yet you are only telling me this now, after seven years. You are saying that it is a wish I should grant you in exchange for you giving up the cocaine. As if I would not have given it to you freely because I wanted to do it myself," Watson says. "Do you know how aggravating that is? That you should feel as if you would benefit more from a kiss between us than I would?"

"That is not what I meant," Holmes says.

"Nevertheless, it is not a fair deal," Watson says. "It cannot possibly be this simple. Or else I would have convinced you to put away the cocaine a long time ago."

"Simple?" Holmes says, shaking his head with a brazen quirk to his lips. "Watson, I assure you that taking me to bed is not such a simple matter. Besides, you have never kissed me before, so your line of reasoning is somewhat flawed. At any rate, I believe you should be glad that I am not asking something more difficult of you."

Watson bows his head. "Holmes, you promise that if I do this, you will put away the cocaine for me."

"I told you," Holmes murmurs. "Tomorrow morning."

Watson gazes into Holmes' eyes for a while, trying to identify some sort of explanation behind everything, but he finds none. Holmes gazes back unflinchingly, big brown eyes seemingly sincere. And already Watson finds that he is reaching for Holmes, drawing the man in for a kiss, all logic be damned.

He knows that he shouldn't trust Holmes as much as he does, but his heart gives in so easily and so completely when it comes to Holmes. It always has.

* * *

When he opens his eyes, he is alone.

The sheets are still warm. He recalls the ghost of Holmes' touch on his skin, and mourns the cool morning air that caresses him instead now. He allows himself to mentally sift through the events of last night for a short indulgent period, closing his eyes and inhaling the scent on Holmes' pillow. He had known, deep down, that waking up with Holmes encircled in his arms wasn't a scene that would likely be fulfilled, but for the moment he is content with the memories of the previous night and the unprecedented joy of waking up in Holmes' bed rather than his own.

He gets up, then, and picks his clothes off of the floor. He notices that a certain waistcoat that should be there has disappeared. He smiles at the thought of Holmes wearing it, for it is a fine waistcoat and he supposes that it is a little too small for himself anyhow.

Once dressed, he sets off to find Holmes. He finds him at the breakfast table, perusing the morning paper, with Watson's waistcoat fitting his form more perfectly than it ever did fit Watson.

"The cocaine?" he asks, straightaway, from the threshold of the room.

"Good morning. You will notice that it is no longer on the mantelpiece," Holmes says.

"Yes," Watson admits. "I did."

"Come here and kiss me," Holmes says quietly.

"Oh, I thought I only agreed to one night of that sort of fooling around. We're making it a regular thing then, are we?" Watson asks, still hesitating to enter the room.

"'Fooling around'? I would hardly call it that--" Holmes begins, but comes to a halt when he is met with Watson's steady, demanding gaze. "You tell me," Holmes amends. "Would you like us to?"

There are no answers to a question like that, Watson thinks. No verbal ones, at least. His hand trembles where it rests on the wall, restless, itching for Holmes' skin underneath his fingers, his palm. "It depends on what exactly we would mean by 'regular'," he says at last.

"Oh for God's sake, man, just come here," Holmes says, impatient, throwing the paper down on the table in a dramatic fashion. "You are too far away for my liking."

Watson can't help but smile, and he closes the door behind him and saunters over to Holmes finally. "I love your waistcoat," he says, smirking, before leaning down to capture Holmes' lips. It is sweeter and calmer than the kisses of last night, having lost the nervous edge that so often blurs first times.

"Why thank you. And by 'regular', I think that we probably mean whenever we are in the mood for it. Would you agree?" Holmes asks when they have broken apart, picking up the paper again to hide his soft smile which Watson manages to catch anyway.

"Yes," Watson approves wholeheartedly. "And when there is no one around to witness our quite illegal activities, I should think." He begins to scoop porridge into his mouth.

"That would be wise." Holmes nods, and that moment there is a knock on the door. "Do come in!" he calls.

A hysterical woman stumbles into the room, introducing herself as Mrs. Frost, wailing about the death of her youngest son. After Watson offers her a cup of tea and tries his best to soothe her nerves, she starts to recount the details of the previous night through stifled sobs.

"I was going to come to you last night, Mr. Holmes, but I was in even more of a state then, and it was so late that you two gentlemen would probably have been asleep, my daughter refused to let me out of the house until this morning," Mrs. Frost explains.

It is so strange, Watson thinks, that last night, a little boy was being stabbed to death out in the streets of London, while he and Holmes had probably been losing themselves in each other and climbing the heights of ecstasy together, their bodies pressed close on a narrow bed. Death takes on a new, raw meaning when juxtaposed with the vibrant moments of life, and it is truly frightening how fortune favours one person but not another for seemingly no reason at all.

"Well, it seems we have a new case on our hands," Holmes says, rubbing his hands together, a hard, bright glint in his eyes. "Watson, finish your porridge quickly and put on your coat. We must start the investigation immediately."

It is also frightening, Watson thinks, how his own heart soars when he sees Holmes so excited at the prospect of work. How his own emotions are so impossibly, intricately linked to Holmes', when they are two separate people with two separate souls.

* * *

They are at Mrs. Frost's house. The body was lying on the street just outside, but by now Lestrade and his men have probably removed it. It had been a pitiful sight: a lifeless boy of six crumpled on the pavement with horrid wounds bleeding through, staining his shirt red. Holmes has already examined the surrounding area outside and Watson has already examined the body itself, and now Watson is sitting inside, talking to the daughter of Mrs. Frost while Holmes wanders around the house, looking in all the rooms.

The daughter has nothing much to contribute. She is a slim thing of fifteen, pale and shy. When he questions her about her father, she skirts around the topic unhappily, and Watson can detect the traces of tragedy that she's buried within her, that he will probably be unable to force out of her. Watson has a feeling that the father will probably be of some importance to the case. Mrs. Frost doesn't seem to agree. "She resents her father for not being around when she was young, that's all, and then he died and never got a chance to make it up to her. It's a thing of the past," Mrs. Frost says.

Watson will tell Holmes later about this, but no doubt Holmes will already have managed to make some incredible deductions about the late Mr. Frost while conducting his own tour of the house. Watson expects no less of the great detective.

And then a visitor arrives. She is blond-haired and fair-skinned, in a dark blue dress that suits her very well.

Mrs. Frost is evidently very upset to see her. "Miss Morstan, I'm afraid this is very bad timing."

Miss Morstan stands there, blinking. "Ah. I apologise. May I ask whether I am allowed to return at a later date, or is the position no longer available?"

"The position is no longer available," Mrs. Frost says icily. "George is dead."

"Oh!" Miss Morstan exclaims. "I'm so terribly sorry. My deepest condolences to you and your family. I-- I suppose I shall leave immediately, then."

She turns to go, and then Watson rises from his chair and cries, "Wait! Miss Morstan-- I'm Dr. Watson, the assistant of a consulting detective who is currently investigating George Frost's death. May I ask what is your purpose of coming here?"

"Oh, I'm just applying for the position of governess," Miss Morstan answers.

"Then you know nothing about the boy or his family that may help with the case?" Watson asks.

"No, I'm afraid not," Miss Morstan replies. "I wish I could help in some way, but I'm truly very sorry. Now, if you'll kindly excuse me, I'd better go."

Watson watches her leave, and then retreats back into the drawing room. Holmes emerges from the stairwell, looking quite satisfied, and he tells Watson that his search here is complete.

"I think I may know where we will find further information concerning the boy's death. I am confident that we will soon be able to apprehend the murderer, my dear fellow. Let us hurry," Holmes says, grabbing his coat from the hook by the front door. "Mrs. Frost, you will receive news from us as soon as we make any significant progress."

He slips out of the door, and Watson follows him.

* * *

A few weeks later, Watson catches Holmes at the cocaine again.

Or, more accurately, he sees the aftereffects of the cocaine, and he knows what has happened.

The case with George Frost had wrapped up swiftly, in a matter of two days, and after that, Holmes found himself stranded without cases once more. And though Watson has tried his damnedest to keep Holmes occupied through various ways, including, yes, bedding Holmes, and other less indecent methods such as chemical experiments, he has failed to keep Holmes enraptured enough to distract him from the fact that nothing measures up to the thrill of the chase.

Nothing measures up, at all.

It is an awful thing, Watson reflects, to know that nothing he can ever do will satisfy Holmes' eternal thirst for intellectual stimulation. But then again, he has always known this. It is just that, recently, he has fooled himself into believing otherwise. He has been blinded by his own passion. And yet, it is also the fault of Holmes' trickery. He doesn't know whether he blames Holmes or not, but Holmes has to be partially responsible. Partially responsible for talking Watson into bed with strange circles of reasoning, for leaving Watson breathless after fierce kisses, for those earnestly imploring gazes that blaze with desire, for those deft fingers that pull at Watson's shirt and trousers and graze the skin underneath, leaving a burning trail of heat in their wake.

For leading Watson to believe that he is enough for Holmes.

But there is no truth there. The only truth is in Holmes' blown pupils, and the racing pulse along Holmes' carotid artery beneath Watson's fingertips.

Holmes is just staring blankly up at him.

"Holmes," Watson murmurs, keeping his voice soft because it will waver and break otherwise. "You promised."

"Watson, my friend," Holmes says. "I did."

"You never threw the cocaine away," Watson says.

"It is not gone, merely hidden," Holmes replies.

"Why didn't you?" Watson asks.

"It is not that simple," Holmes says.

"I believed you," Watson says. "You made it sound so simple."

Holmes opens his mouth to speak, but Watson places a finger over his lips to hush him, and then Watson runs his finger along the warmth of Holmes' lips, upon where he has not hesitated to place a kiss over the past few weeks but is hesitating now, and he feels himself shaking, feels Holmes' great mind whirring with the added stimulant, feels everything crumbling around him. He does not feel like he can kiss Holmes, anymore, even though he wants to. Even though his body craves it. Like a drug, he thinks. Like Holmes craves the cocaine. And yet, the two things are so profoundly different. Or maybe they're not so different, after all. Maybe he is stupid to want Holmes so much. Maybe his obsession with Holmes will tear him apart. Holmes will hurt him, is hurting him; the cocaine will hurt Holmes, is hurting Holmes.

The more he thinks about it, the less absurd the comparison seems.

He shrinks away from Holmes, defeated. "I'm sorry," he says, then wonders why he is apologising when he has nothing to apologise for, when it is Holmes who should be offering the apology. Holmes just keeps looking at him with those eyes, pupils dilated so wide that the brown irises were barely visible. Watson turns to go, and Holmes doesn't even attempt to stop him.

* * *

The next day, Watson looks up to see a familiar woman walking in through the door of his medical office.

"Miss Morstan!" he exclaims.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Watson," she replies, smiling.

"It is a pleasure to see you again," he says, gesturing for her to sit down. "What a lovely coincidence."

"It is hardly a coincidence, I have to confess," Miss Morstan admits. "I found myself feeling a little poorly, and then I remembered you, and I thought, well, I shall come here and find out whether you have been well since we last met. Our meeting was a most curious one, after all, and I am rather intrigued. You see, I am an avid reader of detective novels, and I was really quite excited to meet someone who works with a detective. Was the villain behind that most vile act of murder apprehended?"

Watson smiles. "Yes, he is current behind bars, awaiting his execution," he says.

"That is most satisfying," Miss Morstan says. "Though the poor boy is still dead, of course. Why would anyone want to kill such an innocent child?"

"The murderer was an enemy of the child's father, due to some complicated familial affairs many years ago," Watson explains. "He has long desired to kill Mr. Frost, but when Mr. Frost passed away of natural causes before he was able to do so, the blackguard decided to kill his son for revenge instead."

"How dreadful! The boy did nothing to warrant such a brutal, untimely death," Miss Morstan comments. "The world can be a cruel place indeed." Something in her eyes turn dark, and Watson finds himself wondering what she has experienced that has shaped that brittle hardness in her eyes now.

"Shouldn't we be discussing your illness, Miss Morstan?" Watson says lightly, and Miss Morstan starts to smile again.

"Yes, I suppose," she says. "If we must. I presume that Mr. Holmes is busy at the moment? I hear he shares lodgings with you, and I would love to converse with him about your adventures."

"He is not a very sociable person, I'm afraid," Watson says, slightly acerbically. "He's been a bit of a hermit as of late. I haven't seen him much myself. I think he's holed up in his room testing various poisons on rats or something of the like."

"Oh?" Miss Morstan says, tilting her head. "How very interesting."

"I wouldn't call him 'interesting'. Not right now, at least. I think 'deranged' would be a more apt term, at present," Watson says.

"Do you two get along well at all?" Miss Morstan enquires.

"Sometimes. Mostly. Well, not at the moment," Watson says. "I think we are having some disagreements. Or, more precisely, he is rather fond of cocaine and I am not so fond. As a doctor, I personally believe that it has an overall negative impact on his health. But my opinion is not a common one, and I cannot seem to persuade him to see it from my point of view."

"How unfortunate," Miss Morstan remarks. "How long have you two known each other?"

"Almost seven years, more or less," Watson replies, and then has to inhale deeply to calm the rush of emotion that seems to be surging through his blood. It is one thing to know that he has been acquainted with Holmes for so long, and another thing to say it aloud. It astonishes him, that he has survived it for this long. "Shall we move onto your illness now?"

"Yes, of course," Miss Morstan says.

When he finds that there is little wrong with her apart from having the common cold, he prescribes her the appropriate medication and writes down her details: her full name, birth date, and address.

"Shall I make another appointment for next week, just in case?" Miss Morstan asks.

Watson agrees, and they settle on a date and he writes it down in his diary, and then he bids her farewell.

Somehow, he finds himself already looking forward to that next appointment.

* * *

The morning before Miss Morstan is scheduled to visit again, Holmes emerges from his room for the first time that week, his hair wild and unwashed. He passes by Watson in the drawing room, and Watson's heart flickers with hope and something else altogether, because seeing Holmes always sparks something in him, and seeing Holmes after a week of not seeing Holmes can only fuel that spark a thousandfold.

"I'm just going out quickly," Holmes says, picking up his coat and hat. "I'll be back in ten minutes."

"Do you want me to come with you?" Watson asks, setting down his book in favour of studying Holmes' profile, wishing he could launch himself at Holmes and rip apart the layers of clothing that lie between them until they were just skin on skin. Bare flesh with its hot, brutal honesty, exposing the new scars that must surely mar Holmes' arm now. Watson has tried to touch himself in the loneliness of the night several times this past week, miserably finding his own hands an inadequate replacement for Holmes' slender, graceful, beautiful fingers. Oh God, he could go on forever with the adjectives and it wouldn't mean anything, not unless he has the real thing, which he doesn't, not right now, not with Holmes so distant and unreachable. Not with the broken thing lying in between them.

"Um, no, that wouldn't be necessary," Holmes replies, and immediately Watson knows that he is foolish to have allowed himself to hope.

And yet he plunges on anyway and asks the question he already knows the answer to: "Why, where are you going?"

"Hmm, I just need to quickly purchase some supplies," Holmes answers, dropping the hat on top of his head, where it promptly shadows his eyes, making him even more elusive to Watson than before.

"Supplies," Watson repeats, dully. He retrieves his book from the table and slowly flips through the pages to pick up where he left off. He resents being faced with the fact that Holmes is a riddle that ever perplexes him. He does not comprehend why Holmes has deliberately chosen to go past him on his way out to the chemist's, when he could have easily chosen another route where he would have escaped Watson's notice entirely and obtained more cocaine without Watson ever having to know. He could have lied. He could have done anything but this, and yet he decided to do this. He is standing right there in front of Watson. It seems, almost, like he is trying to accuse Watson of his blatant failure. As if Watson isn't all too horridly aware of it already.

"Yes," Holmes replies. "I'm sorry, old chap." Then he disappears, and Watson listens to the sound of his footfalls on the staircase getting fainter, further away. And Watson hates it, because Holmes didn't mean what he said at all.

* * *

"How are things going with Mr. Holmes?" Miss Morstan asks. She has recovered from her cold fully, and there is really no reason why she should stay but Watson wants her to, anyway. He has been in a dismal mood all day ever since his confrontation with Holmes earlier on.

"Not very well," Watson replies. "I'd rather not speak of it. Anyway, I'm rather glad you have recovered. Sometimes what seems to be a common cold can turn out to be much more malicious."

"Yes, I am aware," Miss Morstan says quietly, and there is that sorrow swimming in her eyes, reflecting the haunting knowledge of grief, and Watson wants to ask her what it is, what she suffered in her past that weighs on her still. But there is no such need, for Miss Morstan answers the unasked question: "My fiancé died of what appeared to be a common cold."

"Oh. I'm so sorry," he says. "I... Was he..."

"I loved him," Miss Morstan says. "And it was terrible, the first few weeks after he died. I was so incredibly outraged at the entire world, because I didn't believe-- I still don't believe-- that either of us did anything to deserve to have that happen to us. But he wanted me to be happy. He told me he did. So I cried my heart out for the first few weeks but then I had to go out and look for a job because I no longer had any means of living, so I was trying to apply for the position of governess, which was how I wound up meeting you that day." She ends with a smile that radiates from under her eyes that are filling with water, and it is so strange, how beautiful she looks at that moment, as she regards him as if he is her saviour somehow. "I'm sorry if I'm overwhelming you, but it's just that I have never been able to truly confide in anyone about this. I have few friends, you see, and though my parents have been very kind to me, I do not feel I should burden them with my own sadness."

"No, it is completely understandable," Watson says, but no words are truly adequate in response to her story. He wishes that propriety could be damned so that he could wrap her in his arms at that moment and breathe her in, teach her the meaning of happiness once more. "The world is really dreadfully unfair, sometimes. It is so terrible that you had to go through what you did. Have you had any luck applying for the position of governess elsewhere?"

"Yes, I am glad to say. I have just started teaching this delightful boy called Charlie," Miss Morstan says. "Very mischievous, though, but an absolute joy to teach."

"Excellent," Watson says. "I am happy to hear it."

"What is that?" Miss Morstan says, pointing to the book on his desk. Watson glances down at it, even though he already knows what she means. He has been flipping through the book, reminiscing in a sudden melancholic mood. The days recorded in that novel seem so very distant now, as if he had never lived through them himself, as if the Watson in the book is just an unknown stranger to him.

"_A Study in Scarlet_," he replies. "It is an account I wrote of my meeting with Holmes and our first case together."

"Oh, how wonderful!" she cries. "May I borrow this copy to read it?"

"Yes, of course," Watson says. "You can keep it if you like. I have another copy in my room."

"Oh, that's very kind of you. Thank you so much," she says. "I look forward to reading it."

She bids Watson farewell, and then Watson leans against the wall in the empty room, trembling at the thought of Miss Morstan reading that book and immersing herself in his memories of those strange, faraway first days. Sometimes he wonders whether he should write accounts of their adventures together, because they seem so private, so precious to him, that he cannot see how he can share them with the public. No matter what words he puts on the page, no one will ever understand how important Holmes is to him. No one will ever be able to grasp what a blindingly remarkable character Holmes is in real life.

But maybe that's a good thing, that no one else will ever be able to decipher his true feelings.

* * *

He stands there, the roar of the crowd in his ears, and blood pounding through his veins.

It is the first time he has seen Holmes' bare chest in weeks. Possibly months. Most probably months. He's lost count. He would have counted the days since they last slept together, but he retains some of his dignity by knowing that he is not pathetic enough to fall to that. But oh, he is almost pathetic enough. He writes in his journal every day, and if he flicks back the pages far enough, he will land on the right date. The last entry which he wrote with the euphoric feeling that the pen was going to grow wings and fly out of his grip any moment because the pen was clearly as buoyant and high-spirited as he was.

Oh, it was ridiculous how Holmes' touch made him such a giddy schoolboy.

And he misses it.

He stands there watching Holmes fight and his heart feels like it has splinters in it, brought on by memories of the feeling of Holmes' chest under his hands, strong and warm and defined, such a short distance between the flat of his palm and Holmes' beating heart. He cannot breathe. The crowd and the darkness suffocates him, and the only source of air, the air that will make him _live_, is the air that comes with Holmes' kiss.

It is so blissfully, woefully illogical, the way his mind works when it comes to Holmes.

Holmes wins, of course, and therefore, so does Watson. Holmes strolls out of the boxing ring and Watson hurries to his side. Holmes collects the winnings, pulls on a shirt and half-heartedly shrugs it on, and grabs his well-deserved bottle of alcohol before making for the exit.

"I didn't think you'd come," Holmes says, hailing a hansom.

They clamber on and sit opposite each other, as far away from each other as possible, whereas before, Watson thinks wistfully, they used to sit close, knees and shoulders brushing.

"I was just glad to see you going out and doing something other than brood in your room," Watson says, biting back a bitter remark about the cocaine. And maybe also a far less vicious remark about a chance of seeing Holmes' gorgeous body, Holmes' fine muscles rippling under a sheen of perspiration as he fought with such speed and intellect-- his intellect, oh dear God, is what makes Watson so weak at the knees. Intelligence is a rarely seen quality in boxing rings, and Holmes has this quality in abundance. Watson can see that there are careful calculations behind Holmes' every move, even if he cannot even begin to attempt to guess what these calculations entail.

"We all have our vices," Holmes says, his gaze flickering down to where he has pocketed Watson's winnings.

"Damn it, Holmes!" Watson cries out, unable to restrain himself any longer. "You can't compare gambling to cocaine."

"Why-ever not?" Holmes simply returns, like an obstinate child.

Watson just stares at Holmes, grasping for words that won't come. "It doesn't harm my health in the same way," he finally says, knowing how feeble he sounds.

"There is no real scientific proof of the detrimental effects of cocaine, Watson," Holmes says. "In fact most doctors are perfectly happy about the damn thing. You're the only person I know who has anything against it. Whereas I know you've wasted a great deal of money on your vice and sometimes I think, if not for me, you would be living in squalid poverty on the streets."

"Holmes, I can't believe you're making this into something about me when it's really about you," Watson snaps.

"Indeed?" Holmes says, raising an eyebrow. "You truly believe that this is just about me?"

"I've only ever borrowed money from you twice," Watson says. "And I've given it all back. And I don't gamble half as much as I used to. If anything, your cocaine use has only doubled since I first met you."

"It's not just about me, Watson," Holmes says quietly.

And there, in the soft light, illuminated by the glow of dusk in the world outside the hansom, Holmes looks so perfect, so sad, so human that Watson just has to reach out and stroke his cheek lightly with his fingers, even though he doesn't understand what Holmes is trying to convey. But the humanness of Holmes at that moment is what steals Watson's breath away completely. Holmes has never looked so human, not when he is injured and in pain and Watson is tending to his wounds, not when he is naked and writhing and alight with passion in Watson's bed.

Holmes does not flinch from Watson's touch or react visibly in any other way. His stubble pricks the soft pads of Watson's fingertips. He stays still and silent, and Watson soaks the moment in. Sears it into his memory.

They have just disembarked and walked into 221b with the door swinging shut behind them when Watson pushes Holmes up against a wall and kisses him, hard, and he thinks that maybe he will regret it later, but right now, he doesn't care. He wants Holmes, wants to make Holmes' his once more, his and only his, this beautiful ethereal creature who is too astonishingly clever to be fully human.

The air, he thinks. Oh God. He can breathe again.

They fall over the steps in their haste to get upstairs and they are fumbling at each other's clothing and dear God, what would Mrs. Hudson think if she saw them now? But they somehow collapse on Holmes' bed in the end and Watson tugs Holmes' shirt off so that he can get to Holmes' arm. That arm. The one marked with all the cocaine he's ever injected into himself. Watson looks at it, runs his hand up and down it, and then he flutters kisses all along that sinewy forearm and wrist, covering every pit in the skin with his lips, making every damned scar his, his, and his alone.

"Mine," he insists. "_Mine_."

Holmes almost looks guilty, then.

Watson presses more kisses onto every part of Holmes' body, caressing all the shallow cuts and the purple bruises that Holmes freshly boasts, and then he gropes for the oil which he nearly spills all over the bed, and soon he's pushing into Holmes with a desperation he has never known before, and his movements are tainted with a sadness that is unfamiliar to him, that makes his limbs heavy and clumsy but fans the scorching heat on his skin, under his skin, bone-deep, especially where they are joined, where they melt into each other, where he becomes Holmes and Holmes becomes him.

There are few words, just the music of their breaths and their flesh and the rustle of the sheets, the creak of the mattress beneath them.

But Holmes looks up at him with wide, watery eyes, pupils dilated-- not because of cocaine, not this time, but just because. Just because of the low light in the room and just because he's looking at a certain John Watson.

And he whispers brightly, hoarsely, into the space between their sweat-slicked bodies: "Oh, John, the immeasurable heights I climb when I am with you."

He has never called Watson that.

Watson stops moving, partly because he's shocked and partly because it is getting unbearable and he can sense his pleasure is going to come crashing down around him any moment. "And how do they compare with the heights that the cocaine provides?" he enquires, and hates himself as soon as the words leave his mouth. Passion has a way of befuddling the mind and destroying the tongue's aptitude for words, replacing it with a talent for other more tactile things instead. Sometimes this is a wonderful thing, but clearly this is not one of those instances.

Holmes is stunned, it seems, but Watson cannot take his words back now. Holmes just looks at him, his eyes turning cold and hard. "They are not the same," Holmes says, and lets his head fall to the side, no longer looking at Watson but at the wall.

Watson wants to shake the man and ask him how they differ, but he does not. He starts to move, again, and hates himself more and more with every thrust.

When they are finished, it feels more like an anticlimax than a climax, and every fibre of his body is filled with self-loathing. He breathes in, and out, and in, and he thinks that he is never going to fall asleep. Not with Holmes lying next to him but facing away from him, like a betrayal. But it is a betrayal he committed, not Holmes. He ought to leave, because he does not deserve this place next to Holmes', only the emptiness of his own room.

But he is too ashamed to get up and get dressed while Holmes watches. So he stays in the bed, and eventually he does fall asleep, contemplating what Holmes meant by "it's not just about me" all the while.

* * *

In the morning, Holmes is gone, and it feels like a repeat of that first morning after, but it is with so much more of a hollow ache in his chest that John Watson rises from the bed and pulls on his clothes.

He is so terribly angry with himself and even with Holmes for getting him into this mess in the first place that he just has to go and take a walk to calm. The fresh air will do him some good, surely. It is laughable, really, how he had thought Holmes was his air. He is nothing of the sort. Not even close.

Somehow his walk takes him to the front door of Miss Morstan's house.

He looks at it, and supposes that he may as well give it a try. He has nothing to lose, except perhaps too many emotions clamouring inside that he _wants_ to lose. So he knocks on the door.

Miss Morstan comes to answer the door after a few moments, and smiles warmly when she sees him there. "Oh, Dr. Watson! What a lovely surprise," she remarks. "Do come in." She steps aside and shows Watson the way to the drawing room, where Watson takes a seat by the table. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Yes, that would be marvellous, thank you," Watson replies. He surveys the room, and takes note of the novels that line the shelves on the walls, spilling over to form a pile on the table as well. They are as Miss Morstan has previously reported: Wilkie Collins, Poe, and some other less well-known authors. Mostly detective novels, with the exception of several romances. But at the top of the pile on the table is _A Study in Scarlet_, which makes Watson blush.

Soon, there is a steaming cup of tea placed in front of him on the table. He takes a sip, and feels the warmth of it burn his tongue, slip down his throat and pool like courage in the pit of his abdomen, and then he looks at Miss Morstan, who has sat down opposite him.

"Is everything all right?" Miss Morstan enquires. "You look rather troubled."

"It's Holmes," Watson says. "You know how I was trying to convince him to give up the cocaine? I do believe I'm just failing miserably. I hope you don't mind me coming here and talking about such depressing things that you probably have no interest in hearing." He realises how awful and discourteous he must sound, but he is so worn out and truly beyond the point of caring.

"I don't mind," Miss Morstan replies. "After all, I did spend most of our last meeting talking to you about my late fiancé, and you made no complaints. And you know I am very fond of hearing about Mr. Holmes. I have finished reading the book you gave me. It was such an enthralling tale! He seems a fascinating person. I would dearly love to meet him one day, but then, he always seems to vex you so."

"Vex is an understatement," Watson says, laughing ruefully. "I honestly have no idea anymore. I think I might have succeeded in estranging him from me last night. I just want him to get rid of the cocaine, but it is so unbelievably difficult and frustrating and I think I'm just making matters worse."

"What happened?" Miss Morstan asks.

Watson cannot give her the full version of the tale, of course, but he dilutes it into the shortest, most decent story he can manage. "He was trying to be nice to me," he says. "He was paying me a compliment, really, but in response, I somehow twisted it into a really horrible remark about the cocaine. I'm an idiot."

"Oh, Dr. Watson," Miss Morstan says, sympathetically. "You're just extremely concerned about your friend, that's all. You care very much for his wellbeing. It is truly admirable how much effort you are putting into helping him."

"But it amounts to nothing," Watson says. "We just keep going around in circles all the time."

"You love him, don't you?" Miss Morstan asks quite unexpectedly, and the question hits Watson so violently that he gasps and reels back visibly.

He doesn't know what to say. There is no way out of it. He is going to have to sit here in front of Miss Morstan until he answers the question. He has never even admitted it to himself, but the answer is inevitable. And yet Miss Morstan's expression is not one of disgust or even mild disapproval. It is just pure, simple kindness.

"Please, don't," he says quietly, unable to summon the bravery he needs for the truth.

"No, I understand, of course not," Miss Morstan replies gently. Her blue eyes are soft and so wondrously kind, and it is so much easier to communicate with her than with Holmes. Maybe it used to be that any relationship he had with anyone could never exist with half as much ease as that which he had with Holmes, but these days things are so different.

He reaches out and tucks a strand of her blond hair behind her ear, and then she is smiling with the knowledge of what he is about to do next, and that smile is one of the sweetest things he has ever seen. It expresses such joy in her confident anticipation. He does not let her down; his hand moves to rest on the back of her neck, to draw her close, and then he leans in and their lips meet, and that kiss, too, is delightfully sweet, like her smile.

After that, she tells him to call her Mary.

In turn, he says, "Please call me John," and tries very hard not to think about the one and only time he has heard Holmes saying that name, whispering it into the space between their bodies.

* * *

Over the next few months, very few things happen. Watson pays regular visits to Mary, and he generally avoids Holmes. Not that there is really a need to actively avoid Holmes; the man spends most of his time lurking behind the locked door of his bedroom anyway, with nothing of interest to him beyond that door during this long, dry period without cases.

Watson would like to be able to claim that he does not spend every day worrying about what goes on in Holmes' bedroom, about Holmes' sanity, which must surely be deteriorating swiftly, and about how many bottles of the seven-per-cent solution Holmes has gone through. But unfortunately, Watson is an honest man, and therefore he is unable to claim anything of that sort. He will not confess to the times he's stood outside Holmes' room, pressing his ear against the wooden panels of the door, hoping to acquire any clues as to Holmes' current occupation.

Then, one day, Holmes bursts out of the room, looking much paler and thinner than Watson remembers him to be, and invites him on a case. He declines, for what is possibly the first time in his life, although the temptation is certainly a compelling one. His body hungers for adventure, misses it sorely, and after so many years with Holmes, he has come to enjoy the thrill of the chase possibly just as much as the detective himself. But more than anything, he just wants to spend time with Holmes again. To bridge the rift between them once more. To see the vigour flare up behind Holmes' dark eyes.

"I have something important to do," he says. It is not a lie. He has a date with Mary. But somehow, it feels like a lie anyway. It is as if everything pales in comparison to investigating cases with Holmes, so that even Mary, _Mary_, whom he has come to adore over the past few months with all his heart, whom he has come to find comfort and stability in-- even she is insignificant when Holmes is involved. When Holmes is involved, Holmes is the centre around which everything else revolves, and that has always, always terrified Watson. But it terrifies him even more now, because he's got Mary and that should suffice, that should more than suffice because she is the most lovely woman in the world and he should be grateful he has her.

Yet he still craves Holmes, and he thinks that yes, it is truly quite appropriate to think of Holmes as being to him as what cocaine is to Holmes. Except, of course, that Watson needs Holmes all the time, instead of just during intervals as a substitute for something else. Watson's addiction to Holmes is far more consuming than Holmes' addiction to cocaine.

So Holmes stands there, in front of Watson, looking both astounded at and wounded by Watson's refusal, and Watson finally notices that he is wearing that waistcoat. The one that used to be Watson's but is now Holmes'. The one that Holmes stole after their first night together. Watson is puzzled as to how it took him this long to notice, and he wonders, too, what on earth Holmes is trying to accomplish by this. Whether it's some sort of strange, incomprehensible revenge for God knows what, because damn it all, Watson's chest hurts wretchedly at the sight of Holmes in that waistcoat.

He steels himself and expects Holmes to ask what the important something is, but Holmes doesn't. "All right then, my dear boy," Holmes says. "I'll go on my own. I won't be back till quite late, I suspect." And then he's gone.

And Watson goes over to Mary's house and they go out for a walk, together, and while they are ambling through the park, arm in arm, Watson says to her, "You know, we've been courting for a while now, haven't we?"

"Yes," Mary says, slowly, and there it is, that smile Watson loves so much, like the first ray of sunlight after rain. That charming smile of expectation, of knowing what is about to come next, of being confident about her prediction.

"Well, I was just thinking," Watson begins, "how would you like to get married?"

"John, is that a proposal?" Mary says, laughing.

"Not exactly," Watson says. "I don't have a ring."

"I would love to," Mary says, her eyes shining, and she reaches up to kiss Watson, and all of Watson's anxiety and doubt evaporates into the warm summer air for that one kiss, because this is what he doesn't have, and can never have, with Holmes, and he loves her. He loves her because she loves him, broken and crooked and wrong though he is, and she makes her affections clear. She doesn't evade him, doesn't twist herself into a conundrum that he must pour all his heart and soul into solving, until it has consumed all his energy and passion and left him exhausted and eternally more confounded than before.

"I have had my eyes on Cavendish Place for a while," he admits. "If that is agreeable with you. We can go look around the house later if you wish."

"Oh, John, that would be lovely," she says fervently, clasping his hand in hers, but then her smile fades a little. "And when you move out from your lodgings and Baker Street? Will Mr. Holmes be on his own?"

"He is an adult, Mary, he can look after himself," Watson says, but he finds himself avoiding Mary's gaze, because he knows that Mary, ever so profoundly perceptive, has grasped the workings of Watson's mind once more.

"Adults need people to look after them, too," Mary says, gently. "You always seemed to me to be so determined to look after Holmes. What changed your mind?"

"I'm not sure I'm entirely capable of looking after him, and it gets increasingly difficult to look after myself when I am around him," he admits quietly, looking away at the elm trees. "I think I do more harm than good." He thinks to himself that what he really means is that sometimes, he wonders if he is just as bad as Holmes, if he has any right to criticise Holmes' cocaine use when there are so many flaws contaminating his own character.

And sometimes, he also thinks that he will be better off without Holmes. His imperfections are always the most apparent when he is around Holmes, and his cursed emotions that are inexplicably bound with Holmes' result in the fact that he cannot function properly as an individual around Holmes. He gets absorbed into Holmes' shadow, and he finds all his thoughts and feelings jumbling into tense, irrational, overwrought chaos.

Perhaps he is being selfish, perhaps he is a despicable man for abandoning Holmes, but he wants to live. He wants to have his own family and maybe his own children and that will never happen with Holmes. Presently, all he can envision with Holmes is an endlessly harrowing downward spiral into utter ruin. They are not as good for each other as he once hoped.

"And will you be accompanying him on any cases after we are married?" Mary asks.

Watson shakes his head.

Mary cups a hand under his chin to force him to look directly at her, but she does not speak. Her eyes, though, are serious and thoughtful. _The consequences may be grave_, they warn.

"I will tell him, tonight," Watson says. "And I will introduce you to him soon, I promise."

Mary just sighs, as if she knows something he doesn't.

* * *

Watson jolts awake when he hears the door open and the floorboards yawn underneath footsteps. He opens his eyes to darkness, and the vague outline of Holmes making his way across the room, and recalls that he has fallen asleep in his armchair in the drawing room.

"Holmes," he calls.

Holmes turns. His expression is unclear in the dim light. "Watson," he acknowledges. "What are you doing here? Why are you not asleep in your room?"

"I was waiting for you," Watson replies.

"I told you I would be back late. Whatever it is, could it not have waited till tomorrow morning?" Holmes asks.

"I'd rather we discuss it now," Watson says.

"Is this anything to do with where you've been regularly disappearing to the past few months?" Holmes says.

Watson looks at him, surprised. "How did you know?"

"I am not an idiot, Watson. You may think that just because I appear to be spending all my time lying dejected and brooding in my room, I am not paying attention to anything outside, but I assure you that that is not the case," Holmes says. "In fact, _because_ you think I am lost to the outside world in my sulking, my observations of you are made all the easier. You are not going to any of your usual clubs, because you head off in the wrong direction for that, and the mud on your boots when you return also confirms that. Completely different part of London. But I can't imagine what business you would have to carry out there. It is not a part of London you used to frequent."

"God, Holmes, why are you asking me where I've been? Where have _you_ been these past few months? Can you imagine how much I was worrying about you, whether or not you've somehow died in that room without me knowing? You didn't even come out for any meals! Were you eating, were you taking more of that contemptible drug, were you running some ridiculous experiments on yourself, had you gone completely insane-- Good God, Holmes, it was unbearable."

Holmes blinks, staggered by Watson's sudden outburst. "My dear fellow--"

"Holmes, you didn't give up the cocaine for me."

"I told you, Watson, it's not at all that simple," Holmes says, his shoulders slumped. "I wish it was."

"Then why did you make it seem so simple?" Watson asks. "Why did you promise that you would give it up if I kissed you?"

"Because I was in such low spirits after the exhilaration of the cocaine had left my system. I felt so utterly powerless and dejected, and I thought, God, if you could kiss me, if I could know that you loved me, then I would feel better. Then I would not have to rely on the cocaine to create that false sense of bliss that lasts no longer than a quarter of an hour, as you so observed. And that is why I babbled anything in the hope that you would take me to bed, to help dispel my black mood," Holmes says.

"It didn't work," Watson says.

"It works," Holmes counters. "But not exactly in the way that I had imagined. Because I didn't consider the drastic difference between the two things. When I am with you, pleasure softens my focus on everything. It makes everything hazy at the edges, distracts me from the rest of the world and redirects my attention on you and you only. My mind loses its coherence and my vocabulary is reduced into an embarrassingly limited range of words. The cocaine does something else entirely. It sharpens my mind and my thoughts become swift as lightning, and for those fifteen minutes I am able to think with more clarity and insight than ever."

"I wish you had never told me to kiss you."

"You regret it?" Holmes asks.

"No. I just wish it had happened in a different way," Watson replies. "In an ideal world, I would have kissed you of my own accord because the heat of the moment dictated it, because my affections were threatening to overwhelm me, and not because you asked for it in exchange for my request for you to quit the cocaine. You know I loved you."

Holmes must have clearly noticed the tense Watson employed, because he says, "The place you have been going lately-- You've found someone else, haven't you?"

There it is. "Yes," he breathes. "Yes. Her name is Mary and she is the kindest, most beautiful woman on earth, and she loves me."

For a second, Watson almost fancies that Holmes will say something like _So do I_ to him, but it is a ridiculous notion to wish for.

"And this is what you tried to stay up waiting for. You wished to discuss this with me," Holmes says.

"Yes," Watson replies. "We've already agreed to move into a new place together, I just need to find her a ring. The wedding will take place by the end of this year, at the very latest."

"Oh, you've already decided to move in together and yet you're not officially engaged yet?" Holmes says.

"We will be, soon," Watson says.

"You are aware that this will only worsen my attachment to the cocaine," Holmes says.

"Yes, I am aware. I tried, Holmes. I tried so hard, and now I'm exhausted and I am entitled to pursuing my own happiness," Watson says, bitterly.

"And you are deserting me," Holmes says. "I assume that you will no longer work with me on cases once you are married and have moved out?"

"Yes," Watson says. "That is correct."

"Well, then, would you like to hear about what I have been doing today? It may be our last case together, should you choose to help with the investigation," Holmes says. "I would thoroughly appreciate it if you did. You know I have always cherished your support."

_Our last case together_. The unfamiliar phrase echoes around in the aching, hollow space within his chest. The temptation is so strong it is no longer one he can fend off. "If you promise me that you will come to dinner with us some time in the next few months," Watson says. "She is eager to meet you, Holmes."

"Why, of course," Holmes says. "I promise. I would dearly love to see whoever it is who has managed to capture your heart in this way. She must be an admirable woman indeed."

"Tell me this isn't one of those promises you are going to break," Watson whispers.

And then, suddenly, he feels Holmes' fingers brush his cheek. In the darkness, Holmes has got closer to him than he realised, and now his awareness of Holmes' proximity is uncomfortably heightened. He is an engaged man, though not officially, and yet he cannot quell the desire that swells in his heart now.

"The case, Watson," says Holmes, close enough for Watson to feel his warm breath in those words, "is a most intriguing one."

"Holmes," Watson murmurs, exasperated.

"A young woman has been murdered, in what seems to be a sacrificial ritual involving black magic. She seems to have been compelled to stab herself," Holmes continues, his fingers tracing Watson's jawline. "You should have seen her. The poor thing. So young. Her parents are distressed. It is our duty to find the killer and makes sure he is brought to justice."

"Holmes, yes, certainly, I will assist you in this case," Watson says. "But you are meeting her."

"Well then, we have a deal," Holmes replies, his voice audible only because his lips are right by Watson's ear. Watson knows that Holmes is offering him a chance to push him away, to resist, to put the distance of propriety between them once more. But there is the other option, the far more appealing one, at once the tougher and the easier path to take. To remain still, to not fight the yearnings of his heart. In the beats of silence, Watson makes his choice. "Marvellous."

And then Holmes' mouth finds Watson's, and he is kissing Watson with the force of a storm, and Watson's heart surrenders to Holmes, now and always, over and over again. He will have to put a stop to this once and for all, because he loves Mary and he will not allow himself to become an adulterer, but that is a struggle for the future. A struggle he is determined to win before his marriage takes place. But for now, in the months in between, his heart will surrender, and he will let it, if only because he is very, very selfish man, after all.


End file.
